Not Fitzgerald
by Robyn5
Summary: Sam/Brooke, bittersweet and unrequited.


Title: Not Fitzgerald

Rating: PG

Pairing: Sam/Brooke

She's in there with him. Ten feet of wall and carpet and the cold shower stall, she's lying in there. I don't know what I'm feeling, be it jealousy or hatred or calm acceptance, I don't know. Okay, so I'm probably not feeling the calm acceptance bit, but they're my damn emotions and I can classify however the fuck I want to. I feel like I'm nothing short of empty. I can't write like Fitzgerald. And I can't compete with Josh, because I'm not a football player and I'm not a man and she can't see me as anything more than her annoying step-sister. So I'll shout with her and I'll be exactly what I'm supposed to be and who everyone thinks I am. I don't know why I feel like this. I don't even know who she really is. I want to.

Damn The Great Gatsby. I read it tonight. I have a test on it on Wednesday. The whole book, this guy Gatsby fell into some kind of dreaming love with Daisy, an elite aristocrat of the 1920's. He never really knew her or knew her when he had her in the book. I don't know Brooke. The idea of being in Love With Brooke might be more appealing than actually loving Brooke. I don't know. All I know is that if she and Josh don't shut the hell up, I may scream and throw a tantrum and become the annoying step sister that we all know I am.

That's it, I'm leaving. I'm walking down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, precariously jumping out in front of me and letting fate decide whether or not I land on a solid plank or completely miss, and plummet to my death. Plummet to my death or fall foolishly and break my damn legs. Doesn't really matter. I'm in the kitchen now, leaning my forehead against the refrigerator, debating whether or not to eat a peach. I grab a Diet Coke, place it on the counter and pop the top, which is surprisingly loud in the darkness of the kitchen. Everything is always louder in the darkness and I forgot to turn on a damn light. I hear someone coming down the stairs, the almost unnoticeable pattering of bare feet on wood, so I know that it's Brooke. Josh would have made noise, would have told the world of his coming. Brooke or Josh. I don't know whom I would rather see less. She's turning on the light and I wince with the unexpected and unwanted light. I almost spill my Coke. She sees me and I think she gasps or maybe her eyes open slightly wider. I don't know. I don't remember or notice what exactly she did to show a slight surprise, even though it only happened a few seconds before.

"Hi," she says, and she doesn't bother to lean against the refrigerator but just opens it and grabs two drinks and moves to the cabinet to get cups. I say hi and she begins scooping up ice and before I know it she's heading up the stairs, but I hear her almost imperceptibly quiet footsteps pause and she's coming back. Oh shit.

Oh, she just forgot to get two straws. I thought that maybe she was going to come hoist me on top of the counter and kiss me senseless. We'd inadvertently spill all three drinks all over the counter and she'd laugh and I wouldn't notice. Then Josh would show up, see us, and drive across the country and become a go-go dancer in New York. I spend way too much time fantasizing. I need to go on Prozac. I need to go on Paxil. I need to go to sleep and then go stock up on all the anti-depressants that I can get an unqualified and incompetent psychiatrist to prescribe to me. It'll be cheaper that way.

She turns the light off again as she leaves, and I realize that she's forgotten that I'm there. Which is the proverbial straw that broke the poor camel's back. I'm walking over to her and in the back of my mind I realize that I really do need those anti-depressants. I think I might be crying slightly because when she turned to look at me she said, "why are you crying?"

I lean into kiss her, and she doesn't back away, but at this range I can see a whole range of surprised expressions on her face when I kiss her. The kiss isn't offending on that many levels. I don't open my mouth, I just press my lips against hers, and I'm not even thinking anymore. She places her hands on my hips and for a second I think that she's going to embrace me or something to that effect, but she's just pushing me back.

"What the hell are you doing?" she says.

"I don't know," I say.

Brooke grabs her drinks off the counter, and when she looks at me she has an expression of disgust and disbelief. I let her go upstairs and I sit back down and wrap my hands around me drink, feeling little drops of water slide onto my hand. I wait a couple of minutes, but no angry boyfriend type person comes hurdling down the stairs, so I'm safe. I feel happy for a little while. I kissed her and that takes guts, so I feel kind of proud. Then I feel really disgusted and disbelieving and I wonder who the hell I am. I'm in a weird mood. In the morning I'll be happy and only be half as weird. I leave my drink on the counter, and I go to my room.

I'm lying on my bed and look at the harsh red numbers. 1:58. I can't sleep. I'm mad at how stupid I was to kiss her. What was I thinking and all that jazz. I can feel myself beginning to be ready to fall asleep. I'm at the point where my whole body feels heavy and my thoughts become a little bit more obtuse, and ready to spread and stretch into dreams. I never dream about Brooke. Unfortunately, that means I never get to have any completely enjoyable dreams about her. According to Freud, half the stuff in dreams are about sex though. Really bizarre objects and actions all have to do with sex, like flying and umbrellas. So maybe every dream that I ever have is about having sex with Brooke. My thoughts are becoming really abstract. To the outside world I'm only half-conscious.

I hear the bathroom door opening and Brooke is coming into my room. That or an apparition of Brooke. I think I'd prefer the apparition, but when she sits on the edge of my bed the mattress tips down somewhat and that makes her real. She's quiet and I don't plan on saying anything. I think the silence is bothering her more than me because she starts to talk.

"Sam, you're my step sister, and I'm straight," she says. I don't say anything, so after a couple of seconds she talks again.

"I won't mention what happened again. I just don't want things to be weird with us, ok?" she says. She smirks.

"Can't you insult me or something?" she says.

I have to say something to that. "I'm sorry," I say, and my mind searches for more words but for once there aren't. I really am not Fitzgerald.

"For what," she says.

"Everything, I guess. I'm sorry, I don't know, 'cause I can't insult you, because I kissed you, or because I'm weird, who knows."

I can tell she hates my answer. Damn those tricky multiple-choice questions. Is it all of the above or a and b but not c or is the answer not really there at all. She looks sad for a second. It's unexpected but she gives me a hug. Or a semi-hug because I'm lying down and I'm not hugging back. She just kind of just drapes over me for a second. She smells really nice. I'm so sad.

"Let's be friends, ok?" she says. I nod because I don't want to chance talking. I hope she doesn't plan on lording this over me. She leans down and kisses my forehead. How predictable and how sweet and oh god I think I love her and hate her simply for this moment. Thirty seconds later she's gone and I'm wrapping up in my covers alone. Josh is still here.

THE END


End file.
